Before and After
by sugarplumdreams
Summary: Where did Killian sleep the night before they left New York to return to Storybrooke and why was he so chipper in the morning when she opened the door?


**A/N:** My take on the two questions everyone seems to be asking: _**Where did Killian sleep the night before they left?** _and_ **Why was he so chipper in the morning when she opened the door?** _(Post 3.12, pre 3.13. Posted to Tumblr March 11, 2014.)

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**Before and After**

It hits her the minute the alcohol burns down her throat, makes the tears well up the same way the memories well up then spew over. _Fuck_. _Eight months_. Eight months of dates and laughter and _falling in love_ like a Goddamn _normal _person. She'd known too — deep down in the gut Henry and Hook had encouraged her to always rely on — that it was too good to be true. She should have listened to herself, should have listened to the innate part of her that _knows_ she's just not meant for forevers and happily ever afters. The product of True fucking Love can't even date someone without it all going to shit. _Fuck._ It aches, it all _aches_ and her head is swimming with too damn much of the lie she lived for _a year_.

Emma takes another big gulp of the beverage in her hand, she needs desperately to drown out the images flashing into her so bright and fast and stealing the breath from her lungs — zoo trips, walks around Central Park, dinners with Henry, _them_…and…_them- _they…and…_that_- and…_oh God_. _Oh God, oh God, oh fucking God_. She's going to be sick, she's going to be so fucking sick.

She can feel Hook's eyes on her, watching her as he always does, knowing her too well as he always does and her heart tightens painfully in her chest. The contrast of him — of everything she remembers about _him_ — and all of the vile, infuriating, disgusting memories of New York crowd her — suffocate her, confuse her — and when their gazes meet across her kitchen, as she watches him sip casually at the drink in his hand, something inside of her snaps.

The tumbler falls from her fingers and the sharp sound of glass breaking echoes loudly in the quiet kitchen. She doesn't give him a chance — she never did, now that she thinks of it, and that _hurts_ — simply grips at the collar of his coat — Neverland images and emotions flood her senses and _oh God_ — and tugs him to her. Her name is muffled against her lips but she doesn't care because she can feel the warm, familiar press of his mouth and taste the rough flavor of rum on his tongue and she feels _alive_ again — but of course she does, he's always made her feel that way.

He groans, hesitates for two heartbeats and then abruptly tries to pull away from her. _No_. She pulls him back under, presses her body further into his and when his hand _finally_ cradles the back of her head — just like in Neverland — she whimpers triumphantly into his mouth.

She's angry, bitter, frustrated and he's her lifeline right now — maybe he's always been, damn him — and she doesn't want to feel anything but _him_ and his mouth and his body and his arms and hand and hook and _this moment_. She wants him to make her forget, wants him to take away her fucking pain and the Goddamn memories of this past year. She wants to be selfish even if it ends up hurting her…even if it ends up hurting him.

He turns them, pins her to the counter then tears his lips away from hers as his hand and hook brace against the cabinets on either side of her head. She doesn't miss a beat, trailing her lips along his jaw and up and down his neck. His chest rises and falls unsteadily as the breath explodes out of him in quick little puffs.

"What…are…you…doing?"

His voice is ragged, tone heartbreakingly broken and she ignores the sting in her chest. She doesn't answer, just continues pressing feather-light kisses across his warming flesh. He smells of the sea, of leather and rum…of _home_ and before she can think too much about it, it fills her up and soothes her aching soul.

"_Swan_," he murmurs.

He needs to shut up, needs to _shut the fuck up_ and just _kiss her_. Her hands move up into his hair, threading through the thick, unruly strands as she tugs his mouth back to hers. Their lips barely graze before he's gripping her shoulders with hand and hook and forcing her still. She's shaking, she doesn't want to _be_ still because if she's _still_ for too long it all comes back — everything she wants to forget and she can't stand it and she can't _breathe_.

Her eyes are pleading on his and it's not until he sighs and reaches up to swipe at the wetness on her face that she realizes she's been crying. She takes a gasping breath as his forehead lowers to hers and her body tremors beneath his fingertips

"You don't want to do this," he tells her.

"Oh, I think I do," she replies, pressing her lips gently, enticingly to his. He wants this, he's always wanted this.

His body jerks in response and he curses lowly. "You're going to hate us in the morning."

She hears the other part he won't say out loud, it's a testament to their ever-present connection, one that even time apart couldn't sever — he's going to hate _himself_. Her heart shatters, hand covering her mouth as she slips away from him. Her other hand forms a fist and she presses it just under her breastbone, willing herself to keep it together.

"I'm- I'm…sorry," she replies.

"Emma-"

She shakes her head, her heart hammering wildly in her chest as the emotions become near unbearable. It's too much, it's too _fucking much_ and the sob that escapes her mouth is her undoing. Her body caves in on itself, knees giving out, but before she crumbles to the floor, his warm arms are there to catch her - as they always seem to be. She chokes on another sob, hands gripping his arms for purchase, and feels the press of his face in her hair.

"Shhhh, love," he soothes. "Shh, I've got you…you're alright, I've got you."

"I can't-" she stutters, chest aching and tight. "I can't…_breathe_. _He_ bought me this. Oh God, I _can't_- Hook, _please_."

She's clawing at her sweater, at the high neck, as the anxiety takes over and consumes her. He scoops her into his arms but she can't focus long enough to even fight him on the matter — all she can do is hang on while she tries to draw air into her lungs. Abruptly the bright lights of her bathroom blind her version and when he deposits her on her feet, she clings to the counter for support.

His hand brushes her hair to one side, warm fingers curling into the turtleneck. She's tries to focus on that, tries to focus on _him_, but her vision is blurring and little white dots are dancing behind her eyelids and if she doesn't get some _air_ she's going to fucking pass out. His hook is there too, resting next to his hand, hooked into her sweater and she knows immediately what he intends to do.

"Hurry," she nods.

She feels the tug, hears the rip all the way down the garment and the minute it loosens from her body she frantically discards the offending material. Emma takes one huge, gulping breath and lays her torso out on the cool surface, her forehead pillowed on her arm. She hears him turn the shower on and she has the fleeting thought that she didn't know pirates knew how to work showers.

"Strip," he says.

Her entire body goes still, she's not sure she heard him correctly. "What?" she sniffles.

His hand closes around her arm and pulls her up. "Take off those bloody awful pants before I do it for you."

Confusion clouds her brain as her eyes bore into his. She waits too long, she realizes, because she sees his brow quirk before he's kneeling in front of her and taking care of the matter himself, helping her out of her shoes. She's stunned and unsteady and completely unsure of what's happening, all she knows is that his fingers are slipping the top button of her pants loose and sliding down the zipper and then he's working the article of clothing down her legs.

"I thought- but-"

"You know, I have to admit, I imagined this under vastly different circumstances." His light, amused chuckle cuts her off. "Don't worry, I fully intend to keep my word. Good form and all that."

She's not sure if she's relieved or disappointed. Her gaze lingers on the top of her head as she slides one foot from the pants then the other, and when he looks up at her and their eyes meet, her stomach clenches involuntarily. He's kneeling in front of her and the moment seems strangely significant, but she doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to think about anything, especially not the fact that she's standing in front of him in nothing but her underwear.

(In the privacy of her mind, she can admit that once upon a time ago, she had imagined this scenario entirely different as well. Her heart starts to ache again.)

He smiles softly at her, a gentle curving of lips that makes the dimples on either side of his mouth wink at her. "You're safe from me tonight," he says pointedly.

Absentmindedly she reaches out to stroke her finger over one of the little dents. "Just tonight?"

His mouthes curves up just a smidgen more and he turns his head to kiss lightly at her fingers. "Aye." He sighs heavily as he rises to his feet and makes it a point to keep his eyes on hers — always the gentleman. "Now that you're being cooperative, the rest of your garments, if you please."

This time _her_ brow arches at him, but she doesn't say anything, just continues to study the deceptively neutral expression on his face. His eyes are challenging though and she knows that if she refuses his request, he'll step in and get the job done himself. She's not sure if she's ready for that so to maintain _some _semblance of her control, she side-steps around him and does as he's instructed, ignoring the vulnerability that creeps up her spine and spreads a light flush across her skin as she strips herself bare in front of him.

She doesn't look at him — she can't — so she climbs into the bathtub and draws the curtain, thankful that she invested in a solid colored one that hides her from his too-blue, too-knowing, too-understanding gaze. When the warm spray hits her body, she sighs in relief.

That relief is short-lived though, because as her body starts to relax, her mind starts to drift and she can feel it starting to bubble up again. It frightens her, wants to devour her, and she presses her forehead onto the cool tile walls as she closes her eyes and tries to keep it in. Her breathing's picked up again and she's on the verge of another panic attack when suddenly the curtain rustles aside and she hears, rather than sees, Hook get in the shower with her.

"_Really?_" she squeaks.

He doesn't speak, just draws her back under the spray and rubs his fingers into the tension at the base of her neck while the water cascades soothingly over her.

"Are you naked?" The question is out before she can stop it and the heat abruptly reddens her cheeks.

His chuckle rumbles off the walls and washes over her. It's a familiar sound she doesn't realize she's missed until this moment. He never answers her but she has a distinct feeling that _God_, he most likely is — she never turns around to find out though. She feels his hand pull away and reflexively angles her face towards him until their eyes meet. _Oh yeah_, he's definitely naked, and she's definitely _not_ looking anywhere but his face.

"Have you any soap? Or a washcloth?" he asks.

Her head cants at him and she gives him an incredulous look. "A washcloth? Seriously?" She turns back away from him, reaching for her loofa and the shower gel on the rack, then pours a good amount of goop on the sponge before working her hands into it so that a nice lather builds. She hands it to him when she faces him once more. "I can't believe you're in my shower." He grins at her then simply gestures for her to turn back around and her brow furrows. "What the hell are you even doing?"

He nudges her with his hook until her back is to him again. "Cleansing you," he says simply, beginning to scrub gently at her body.

Oh. Of course, she thinks sarcastically, he's cleansing her and- _Oh. Ohhh_. Her heart lodges itself into her throat at the implications of his words, the tears springing back into her eyes for reasons that no longer have to do with the last year and everything to do with _him_.

She lets him, lets him wash away each vile, disgusting, heart-wrenching memory with every stroke of the loofa on her body. She wants him to, needs _him_ to. Her eyes close as she falls into his rhythm, as she drifts back in time to beanstalks and jail cells and swirling portals, as she recalls broken ribs and beans and second chances, as she remembers faith and trust and a stolen kiss in the jungles of Neverland, as she recollects loneliness and jealousy and a tearful goodbye at the town line, as she recounts hope and another stolen kiss and his endless constancy in her life.

He pays particular attention to her heart and when it stutters beneath his care, she sighs. He moves lower and no spot on her goes ignored. He's very thorough and she realizes that it's as much for him as it is for her - while he washes away her awful memories of the last year, he scrubs off his own pain and his own loss and his own grief. Eventually, his movements cease and she feels him crouched in front of her, his eyes watching her, worshipping her, and she feels too much again. She can't bring herself to look at him, but she hears him exhale a deep breath then feels the touch of his forehead on her stomach.

She aches, God how she aches, and absentmindedly she weaves her fingers through his damp hair, holding him to her, anchoring him to her. He's given her so much, this man…has done _so much_ for _her_ and this time, as the tears roll down her face, she can't help but feel whole again, like _herself_ again, and like he had promised — cleansed and healed.

"Better?" The word is murmured against her skin.

"Yeah," she whispers back.

"Good."

He shuts the water off then helps wrap her up in a big, fluffy towel, drying her and himself before carrying her back to the bedroom. She watches him work, watches the dips and curves of his concentrated face as he gets her new clothes and helps her dress. She doesn't argue with him, doesn't really feel like it between exhaustion and his kindness, and when he tucks her in, she feels cared for, _cherished_, but that was never unusual where he was concerned.

"Get some rest," he tells her, before slipping away and leaving her in the darkness.

She sighs but she doesn't fall off into oblivion the way she thinks she's going to. Instead, she listens to him moving around, cleaning up after the mess they'd no doubt made of the bathroom. It's so strange, her life is so strange, but when he comes back to check on her — clothed in his pirate garb once again — she doesn't feel like _this_ is strange.

"Can I get you anything?"

"No," she croaks, shaking her head, but she reaches out her hand to him, imploring him to come a little closer. He hesitates then eventually pushes away from where he's standing in the threshold to stand a few feet from her bed. "Will you stay?" It's a moment of vulnerability, but she doesn't care. She's exhausted and she doesn't want to be alone and she doesn't trust anything right now except _him._

Hook doesn't say anything, just stares at her face for a long time. She's always wondered what he sees there when he looks at her like that — maybe one day she'll have the courage to ask. Eventually he lowers himself onto her bed, atop the covers to prevent any temptation, no doubt, and props his back against the headboard while he stretches his legs out beside her.

"For as long as you wish it," he replies softly.

She falls asleep with a tear on her cheek and his warmth beside her. When she wakes, it's to an empty bed and her comforter tucked firmly around her - she knows he's gone and excused himself, for Henry's sake, and it makes her sigh at how well he knows her.

Later, when he saunters into her apartment, it's with too much pep in his step and a bright, heart-melting smile for her. All hopes that he might have simply forgotten the events of last night — the way she had thrown herself at him, how he'd seen her _naked_ and _vulnerable_ — are shot to hell at the mischievous look in his eyes. _Goddamn it._

"You ready, Swan?" he asks cheerfully, walking in with a quiet ease that makes him look like he belongs exactly where he is.

_Fuck. _She glances away, a slight shake of her head and soft curving of lips as she shuts the door. Maybe he does.

"Uh-" she rushes behind him. _Wait, you idiot!_ "Henry!" she calls. "This is…Killian."

_Fin_


End file.
